The Road to Fouzen
by Mechalich
Summary: Before the Militia could save Gallia, the Empire scourged it. This is a story of those desperate days as Lt. Vernon Marten and Darcsen conscript Maia Serl fight with the 5th Irregular Squad in an attempt to hold back the Imperial tide.
1. Chapter 1

**Gallian Front**

**Town of Redor**

**5 Days into the Imperial Invasion**

"All citizens must evacuate immediately or report to the central square for militia assignment, I repeat all citizens must evacuate immediately or…" the announcement, blared loudly by an unlucky MP with a bullhorn in a jeep, had been playing for almost an hour now as the car circled the small town of Redor. It was utterly memorized by those men and women still waiting in the central square. For Lieutenant Vernon Marten it was an even more familiar recitation: it was his fifth time hearing it in the past three days.

It's only mid-afternoon, he thought grimly as he waited in his grime-coated Gallian uniform, the way things are going I could easily make it to six. That is, assuming I manage to live through this attack.

By rights Vernon ought to consider himself a very lucky man, he had lived through five attacks by the Imperial armored columns on the hasty Gallian defensive positions thrown up after the impossibly swift fall of Ghirlandio. The losses in those fiascoes had been murderous, high command had simply not possessed a plan for this situation and the Imperial armor was advancing far too fast to allow time to generate one. _So here we are, throwing together the defense of yet another town, trying to buy a few hours against their inexorable advance_, the Lieutenant struggled to keep his face professional, but the impossibility of the task made it a challenge. _The honored dead may have it easier than those of us doomed to struggle on, _he considered.

Glancing at his watch, Vernon turned to his immediate superior, a man he'd met at the town gate only four hours before when he straggled in with a few surviving watchmen and soldiers from the last town, Nerlom. "Captain," he offered somewhat hesitantly. "The Imperial vanguard may arrive at any moment. Shouldn't I take the last batch of recruits and move to our assigned position?"

"I should think we have a few minutes yet, Lieutenant," the Captain, Vernon found he could not recall the man's name, remarked with a surprisingly casual tone. "The enemy simply cannot maintain this pace of advancement for long. Why I wouldn't be surprised if they do not attack us here today at all."

Privately Vernon did not agree with that assessment, but he made no protest. The Captain was a trained soldier, a man who'd been schooled for this sort of thing. A week ago Vernon's military experience consisted largely of teaching town watch members what kind of regular exercises they should run. It was not his place to judge. _Who knows_, he managed a modestly kind thought. _Perhaps there are a number of good fighters still in the town who have not yet made up their mind. Our position is not at the immediate front of engagement anyway._ His generosity melted at that consideration. _Though I'd bet the Imperials will breach the outer line in less than ten minutes._

So he waited; the last of five Lieutenants, all survivors of other, scattered commands or veteran militia members suddenly reactivated, to take command of a squadron of local volunteers. The existing town watch had long since been put into place to defend the town, as had the Captain's modest force and those survivors who had retained any sort of unit coherency. To Lieutenant Marten and his fellows was left the unglamorous task of leading any volunteers in an effort to place every body possible on the defensive line. That much, at least, he agreed with. Everything had to be done to slow the Imperials now, so a concerted defense could save the ragnite mines behind them. He couldn't see much hope for Gallia if those mines were lost.

A scuffle by the edge of the square suddenly diverted Vernon's attention from his dark musings.

"I said no!" a sharp, angry, but still strongly feminine voice snapped. "I'm not joining up! The hell with dying for Gallia! I'm getting out!"

"You came to the square lady! That makes you a volunteer!" a rough voice responded.

Vernon turned to see a tall, highly athletic woman, straddling a, a…bicycle, of all things, struggling with an MP at the edge of the square. The woman's bike was decked out with all sorts of gear, and he immediately concluded she must have been traveling on it for days. Looking past the MP's helmet he caught a modestly pretty face topped by short hair in a particular…

_A Darcsen_, Vernon realized suddenly. _Well, that's one reason not to like MPs very much._ Personally he didn't much care either way; he'd never seen any compelling evidence regarding them one way or another. The fate of Darcsens was something he'd hadn't much troubled over.

The woman had a strong will, whoever she was, the Lieutenant noted, as she grappled with the MP and then shoved him bodily out of her way.

The clatter the man's gear made when he hit the pavement finally drew the Captain's attention. "What is going on here soldier?" he demanded.

"This woman drove that bike of hers right up to the square," he pointed an accusatory finger. "But now claims she doesn't want to enlist."

"I took a wrong turn, that's all!" she barked back. "Why the Hell would I sign up to fight?"

"Young lady," the Captain attempted to remain reasonable. "Universal conscription is official Gallian policy. You'll no doubt find yourself called to defend your nation sooner or later."

"We'll see," she hissed. "Maybe the Imps'll finish Gallia before that happens."

Vernon would have found the discussion amusing, if not for the expressions on the faces of the other dozen-plus volunteers standing before him. They fingered their rifles and machine guns nervously, doubt spreading between them. That was not something needed now, not if he was to get anything out of this highly irregular force at all.

He was on the verge of stepping in to intervene when there was a low screaming noise, followed by a thunderous boom.

Artillery fire! Vernon sprang into motion. He grabbed one of the last extra rifles from a crate, marched over to the biker, and tossed it at her. She caught it smartly in both hands. "The Empire just decided for you," he ordered. "You're now a scout in the 5th Irregular Squadron. Fall into line!"

She chose to obey by wheeling her bike over to the others, but Vernon had no time to press it. "Captain, permission to move to our position immediately?"

"Yes, yes," the officer appeared rather flustered by the sudden onslaught of artillery fire. Vernon wondered how much the man had truly been hoping the Empire would wait a day. "Counting on you to hold that road if the gate fails Lieutenant."

"Will do sir," Vernon responded with far more confidence than he felt. When the main gate fails we will do what we can, there's no ifs involved here. "5th Irregulars, move out!"

Real soldiers would have fallen into columns behind a point man, but Vernon was forced to lead his ragged little grouping forward himself, trotting along carrying a rifle and a small portable wireless. Inured to the indignities of this chaotic defense as he was, the Lieutenant was still regretful. He should be guiding the group in a tank, he'd rated out to command one, and he ought to have a real squad of soldiers, not a gang in cast-off blue smocks carrying old weapons last used by trainees and with only the memory of their mandatory school-day training to guide them. Well, there's nothing for it. We've got to meet the Imperials all the same; they certainly aren't giving us a choice.

There were three major roads leading from the east side of Redor to the town's center. Vernon's 5th Irregulars had been tasked with holding a secondary defensive position on the southern-most of these corridors. Two of the other irregular units had similar postings, while the final two had been stationed north and south in case of potential flanking maneuvers. The Captain wants to stop them at the eastern edge of town, the Lieutenant knew, and then use his mobile troops to counterattack or reinforce as needed. However, if everything fell apart, and any honest assessment held it was only a matter of when the Imperials achieved some kind of breakthrough, then it would be critical to slow the advance down these roads so a column could stand to and render a fighting retreat possible. We'll be the ones who decide whether Gallia pulls back from Redor, or another unit is swallowed up by the massive Imperial war beast, devoured utterly.

"Take positions across the road!" Vernon called the orders as he arrived at his 'position.' The engineers had made only the most meager preparations. No comforting sandbags lay across the road, only overturned vendor carts, frail creations of wood and lacquer. He spotted a stray truck, abandoned with some kind of engine trouble on the right side, next to a print shop. _That's my position_, the Lieutenant realized with one of the snap-judgments of intuition he was learning to utterly rely upon as the war continued to chew on his fiber.

"All shocktroopers, get that truck overturned!" he shouted the orders. "Scouts, break into that shop and take all the paper you can find, layer it in front of our barricades. Move people, we've only got minutes here!"

"Sir, can't we just stay in the buildings and fire at them from there?" one of the volunteers, an older man, easily twice Vernon's age, suggested.

The Lieutenant snapped his head around, sizing up the strong measure of support he saw in the eyes of the intimidated troops at this suggestion. _They want to hunker down, spray some covering fire, and then turn tail. Like everyone else who hasn't joined up yet, they claim to want to serve Gallia, but they've no real will to risk their lives._ It sent a stink of derision burning through his chest, how could any man not take up arms in such a time of trouble? But he knew judgmental words would not work here. "This isn't EWI, the walls of these townhouses won't save you from today's machine guns. Worse, if the Imperials find you in the buildings they'll simply launch a tank shell in, and then all that brick and mortar means your death. Fortify the road! Now!"

With deep reluctance in their strides they moved, only when the sounds of fighting, the high screams of artillery and the loud whump-boom of tank shells began to reach them did urgency quicken the strides of these pseudo-soldiers. Vernon was not idle, moving ceaselessly to direct the mounting of paper and aid his shocktroopers in overturning the truck. He also caught one idle face.

"You," he demanded of the Darcsen woman with the bicycle. She was standing behind their position, examining it carefully, not helping at all. _This one_, the Lieutenant realized suddenly, _truly understands our chances. She is assessing possible escape routes._ "What are you doing?"

"Looking for a good firing position," she muttered absently.

It was a plausible lie, potentially. "You rate out as a sniper?"

"I did, during training," she snickered, clearly holding something back, and enjoying the secret.

"Good for you," he complimented, meaning it; precision marksmanship was not his strong suit. Her attitude, however, was not something acceptable in this situation. "Unfortunately, we have no sniper rifles to issue out in this squadron. However, I still have a job for you. I need a spotter forward, so take that bike of yours and go up to within range of the main gate. The second it falls, haul back here."

"You want me to go forward?" she barked incredulously. "I'm not getting any closer to those Imps! Not on the orders of some prick with a death wish!"

With a snap motion, half training, half instinct, Vernon snapped his rifle up into the Darcsen woman's face. "The Imperial attack might result in your death," he spoke very slowly, making sure he was clearly understood, heavily conscious of the many eyes on him now. _This is a risk, but a necessary risk_. He made his breathing steady, hiding his pounding heart. "But disobey my orders now, and their advance will only carry them past your corpse. Do I make myself clear?"

"Perfectly, sir," she hissed.

"Good, now get up there, on the double," he gestured with the barrel of the rifle.

Looping a leg over her bicycle, the woman started to lethargically pedal down the road to the gate. He followed her with the rifle until he was certain she wasn't going to turn and try anything stupid. _I might have just earned a bullet in the back, but at least we're committed now_, Vernon told himself. "Move it people, they're coming!"

Fifteen drafted scouts and shocktroopers scurried into positions behind the truck and carts. Timidly, one young man approached Vernon at his chosen point by the truck's front bumper. "Where do you want the lance sir?"

_Ah, that is the question isn't?_ He looked at the youth, a boy just out of his mandatory training, the only one in the group with anything resembling proper lancer experience. One lance, one lance only, with a total of five charges, against the greatest force of mobile armor to ever rip the vulnerable earth apart beneath the rumble of its treads. "Hang back behind us here," Vernon ordered. "So if the truck gets hit you'll be spared. When a tank comes close enough, I'll wave you up between me and the building wall. You'll fire from there. We've few shots, so you'll have to wait until they're close, make every charge count." _With luck we might take down one light tank_, the Lieutenant considered silently.

"Couldn't we take lances from the Imps sir?" the young man asked.

"We could," Vernon acknowledged. "But the Imperial commanders aren't stupid. They've got the armor advantage, so their lancers are hanging back, only moving against our tank columns. If we see any we'll have achieved a great victory already."

The young man smiled. He had no idea of the doom that was approaching.

Vernon did, he'd already lived through it, and when the scratchy borrowed wireless erupted in cries of tanks at the gate he knew it had come to them once again. Idle as he stared down the scope of his rifle, awaiting the enemy, he was momentarily distracted by something trivial. _I didn't bother to ask that Darcsen woman her name, what an oversight. It's not right to send someone out to die nameless._

Technical Notes

The game shows very little of the initial Imperial invasion, except the defense and subsequent fall of Bruhl and the initial fall of Ghirlandio. We know only that the Empire, using mobile armor, rapidly conquered essentially all of northern and central Gallia. One of the major lines of advance was from Ghirlandio, across the Naggiar Plains, to Fouzen. It is on that front that this piece is staged. It is not clear exactly how long this whole process took, because the game storyline effectively skips over the entire Imperial invasion from the moment Bruhl is evacuated until fighting has reached the very gates of Randgriz. This is confounded by a lack of knowledge regarding the actual size of Gallia as a country. So I will be making some modest assumptions.


	2. Chapter 2

**Gallian Front**

**Town of Redor**

**5 Days into the Imperial Invasion**

_Devil take that Gallian Lieutenant!_ Maia cursed as she dismounted her bicycle the instant the main gate of Redor came into view. _And the Devil take all soldiers, Gallian and Imp both, for starting this stupid mess and getting me involved! _Anger seethed in her, thankfully burying the very real fear of death struggling to overwhelm her emotions. _What do I care if some governments decide to blow each other up over territory, wealth, and all that garbage? Life for a Darcsen's not going to change, bottom of the heap everywhere. Imps and Gallian both look at you as inhuman, Federation too, so why spill my blood over it?_

_That Lieutenant though,_ Maia heard a voice from some deep, dark, usually silent place speak in the back of her mind. _He didn't bother with bullshit, and he didn't make any Darcsen remarks. He just held up that gun and said 'choose.'_ _That's some ice cold stones there, no mistake._ She could almost respect the man, despite sending her here to take an Imp bullet to the head, almost.

The sounds of battle, close now, intruded on her thoughts, but there was nothing to see. It was all lost in a fog of smoke and dirt beyond the gate, errant noises of pain and death and destruction raining down with the continuity of a factory assembly line, but she could discern nothing from this maddening din. It was all merely noise; she had not the skill to discern the particular melody of the different weapons, the variable frequency of the rifles and machine guns used by differing sides. The explosions and the human sounds of pain and despair were always universal, of course, but universally uninformative.

So Maia hefted the rifle and tried to focus on it to calm her nerves. She sighted in on the gate's right pillar, finding a great knot in the massive logs used to build it.

_Heavy…_she noted, feeling the unfamiliar nature of the weapon. _So this is a military model, so different from a sporting rifle. The recoil's sure to be fierce; I'll have to be careful._ The technical thoughts were calming, they avoided dwelling on the crux of the matter: shooting a human being. Maia had never done that before, though she'd fired a weapon thousands of times in competition, having taken up biathalon as a winter counterpart to triathalon. _The Imps don't allow Darcsens to enter their competitions, but I guess anyone can enter a war,_ she thought grimly.

Then the battle shifted.

A tattered line of men pulled back through the gate, running in many directions. A lone tank rolled backward trying to cover these men in the blue of Gallian regulars, mixed with town watch, but a shell slammed into its turret just as the threshold was crossed, and a massive ball of fire engulfed the gateway.

Eyes burning, Maia blinked desperately, trying to focus on what was happening. Machine-gun fire tore through the gate even as few men retaining sense labored to seal it shut. Bodies hit the ground as a tank shell tore a huge hole in the side of the steeped wood, and the young Darcsen watched in terrible fascination as an arm, severed by shrapnel, tumbled through the air for a good thirty meters before landing in a bed of marigolds.

Moments later, the gate shut but not properly sealed and already buckling under heavy fire, the Gallian regulars streamed away in every direction. Some ran past Maia's position of modest obscurity behind a patio bench, but other took any road. _I really hope they're responding to some kind of retreat plan,_ she thought desperately. _Otherwise Gallia's not going to last very long and getting out of the country could be a hot prospect._ Bitterly she regretted taking the wrong turn and entering that square. She could be putting miles and refugees between her and the Imperial column even now, instead she'd been sent by that ice-hearted Lieutenant to play tag with trained soldiers.

An ear-splitting crack ran out above the din, and then a long tearing creak echoed as half the gate buckled, tore, and fell to the ground with a powerful but soft _whump_.

Maia's eyes followed it out of instinct, and so she barely noticed when the first tan clad form crossed over her field of view.

_Imp soldiers! Shit!_ Her body responded faster than her mind. Schooled to track and fire immediately when finding a target she pressed down on the trigger automatically, slicing through the first long pull and then subsequent short pulls as she emptied all five rounds.

The tan-armored soldier, struck where his neck plates and helmet met by the third shot, tumbled to the ground. Belatedly Maia observed he must also be a scout, for he carried one of their bolt-rifles.

Somewhere something in the back of the young woman's mind a singular thought registered to the exclusion of all others: you just killed a man. He never even saw you and now he's dead. The whole world went numb.

Her eyes and body didn't bother listening to her mind. True to her sportsman's heritage they were going on based on pure adrenalin and instinct. Tracking the tan-colored uniforms, surprisingly difficult to see against the backdrop of dust and masonry, she fired at another scout as he scrambled over the fallen gate.

This man took hits to the left arm and leg, but did not fall. He spun and returned fire erratically, sending shots over Maia's position. Swiftly reloading the Darcsen blasted two bullets through his helmet and into his brain with her next volley.

A brutal whir cut toward her, and a mighty stream of bullets ricocheted off the bench and nearby ironwork. Eyes twitching to the left they observed a trooper with a stubby, heavier weapon held slung low.

Shocktrooper, Maia noted, recognizing the machine-gun indicator.

_What are you doing woman?_ Her mind finally caught up with her body. _Get out! Get out! You can't fight the whole Imperial army by yourself, you'll get killed. That Lieutenant said to haul ass when the gate fell!_

"Shit, shit, shit!" Maia hissed under her breath, spitting the words to keep her sanity as she grabbed up her bike, and, in a momentary pause in the firing, streaked into motion.

Bullets seemed to fill the air, and she crouched down as low as possible over the handle-bars, rifle rattling against her back in jolting painful motions. Zigzagging with abandon, Maia struggled to make a difficult target, though she doubted any of the Imperials were trying very hard to hit her. Fear spiked and she dared to look back for a single glance when her ears caught the sawmill-shredding rumble of a tank's tracks thrashing over the fallen gateway. Ragnite engine backlighting it with cobalt fury, the tank trundled forward inexorably. It had come to claim Redor for the Empire, and what was there to stop it?

Thigh muscles churning with the power of a tri-athlete at need, Maia covered the distance very fast, leaving the Imperial troops and their cautious advance into the urban maze, well behind. In seemingly mere seconds she had reached the little line of the '5th Irregulars,' and caught the stern-eyed Gallian Lieutenant peering out through his field glasses, sighting past her.

Skidding to a stop on the rough cobbles the surge of battle-rush faded a little, and Maia felt suddenly overcome with fear. _Why did I stop? Why didn't I just keep riding? Surely that Lieutenant wouldn't have wasted time to try and shoot me down, I could have escaped._ Glancing at the Gallian Regular, Maia felt a sickening thought in her stomach. _If I'd run, I'd be a lesser human than him though, and I'll never admit to that. I don't owe Gallia nothing, but I'll be damned if I let you think I haven't got your courage blue-boy._

"Report scout!" the Lieutenant commanded. Maia could not recall his name, if he'd even been introduced.

"They're coming, the gate's fallen. The regulars were running like lost sheep," she couldn't help but smirk. "I killed two of them." She had not intended to say the last, but it tumbled free on its own accord, impossible to hide.

The Lieutenant's face was unmoved, he id not smile or frown, giving a completely neutral expression. "Two less then, but there's plenty more," he said with soft iron. "Any idea of the overall strength?"

"I couldn't say," she berated herself silently at this admission. _He sent me to spot, what kind of an idiot am I, not making a count?_ "A tank came through almost immediately though."

"They'll run scouts up, and then bring up the armor once they determine there's resistance," the Lieutenant's voice rose, making certain all could hear him. "Everyone, suppress the scouts and wait for the tanks. Stay under cover! Hold your grenades until you can hit a tank; we haven't got enough to spend them otherwise. We have to hold as long as we can!"

"As long as we can?" Maia questioned. "When will we know if we can't?"

His eyes went suddenly murderous, then unexpectedly softened. "Several conditions," he answered. "If they give a direct charge and we can't hold, then we're overrun. That's what they want and what we are going to stop. Eventually they'll fan out through the alleys to flank us or bring up artillery. If they do that then the position is untenable and we'll withdraw." He said it with pride, but Maia saw something else. _He doesn't believe we have a prayer of lasting that long, does he? _

"Take the left side of the formation, scout," he ordered Maia. "You now have seniority here, by virtue of ten minutes more combat experience than anyone else."

She had just begun to scramble to where he pointed when a sharp cry went up.

"I see them, they're coming!"

"Quiet!" the Lieutenant ordered. "Don't fire until they get close. We want to pin them down! Get under cover you fools!"

Maia scrambled into position, hastily checking the bolt on her rifle. _Breathe, Maia, breathe,_ she told herself. _Keep it together._ She rolled into place behind and overturned cart, now piled high with reams of paper for padding. It looked comical, and she could only hope the Lieutenant knew what he was doing. _I doubt it, what kind of real officer would be taking a bunch of nobodies like us on a stand and die mission? I'll just have to keep myself alive._

There were four scouts, in the androgynous helmeted armored suits used by the Imperials. They advanced in two teams, one covering the other as they scurried from cover to cover, weapons continually up and forward, eyes scanning, all the little behaviors marking them as professional soldiers. They spotted the Gallian position with little difficulty, but held their fire. Maia guessed they were unsure how many persons they faced, or whether there might be a tank hidden in an alley. The second team advanced to the edge of effective range and with surprising suddenness, shattering a surreal calm no one had even realized existed, opened fire.

The bullets impacted futilely against blocks of paper and the cobblestones. "Hold your fire!" the Lieutenant shouted, but his request was futile. Someone, Maia had no idea which of her fellows it might be, she didn't know them at all, shot back.

Their fire missed wildly, but the Imperial scouts shot back with solid accuracy, sending tufts of paper and nasty wooden splinters everywhere.

"Damn!" the Lieutenant's voice rose against the din. "Fire at will! Take them down! Do it now!"

Sighting at the vague tan shapes, huddling in between obstacles, Maia pulled the trigger, zipping little pellets of metal, powder, and lead through the air. She could not see any damage she inflicted, only that one Imp dropped to his belly, lying prone as shots sailed harmlessly over him.

Reload, fire, reload again, always keep shooting. Every second became an eternity of urgency and the outside world disappeared into a razor focus on the dual commands, aim and fire. One Imperial stuck a hand out too far and pulled a bleeding stump back in, another ended his days sprawled on the pavement, though no eyes had seen the round to claim him.

It was not one-sided. A man grunted and then collapsed doubled over, red staining all through his smock. Chips of stone leapt up from the cobbles and off the building walls to join the wooden darts in the air. One claimed a man through the left eye, and he dropped as if boneless.

Then the Imperials displayed that, for all their success against Gallian so far, most of them were new to the world of warfare. Instead of hunkering down and attempting to wait for support, using suppressing fire to stay safe, one man jumped up and backpedaled, trying to get out of range.

Maia sighted, drew in a slow breath, and pulled the trigger again and again.

Red spots burst through the tan armor plating in the chest.

"Concentrate fire! Take the last one!" the Lieutenant's exhortations barely registered against the storm of gunfire, but bullets followed his command.

They didn't reach before the tank came into view.

It was one of the Imperial light tanks, a stubby, conglomerated two-turret mess of a vehicle. It ugliness did not effect its combat ability against poorly trained infantry opponents, however, and the sight of the metal beast terrified Maia. _One little rifle and a single ragnite grenade against that? Hell no! How can the Lieutenant expect us to stand?_

The tank, for reasons Maia could not understand but was fervently thankful for, did not fire while it advanced, caterpillar treads clawing through the cobblestones.

"Fire at the support troops you fools, the support troops!" the Lieutenant shouted, and one rifle, presumably his own, spat forth bullets at an angle behind the tank.

Looking through the dust kicked up by those treads, Maia saw them, scouts and shocktroopers scrabbling forward with the tank as a mobile source of cover. She aimed at best she could and fired, striving to hold back rising panic.

Bullets filled the air as Imperial soldiers dropped and returned fire, spreading a cacophony of confusion and pain.

Then the tank's advance paused, its turret moved, and its weapons spoke for the first time.

A massive detonation impacted the fallen cart in the center of the street. Blinking away the obscuring dust the Darcsen woman saw nothing but flinders remaining, and bodies tossed about. Remarkably these blue-smocked Gallians appeared mostly alive, some even unhurt, simply tossed by the blast. It was not a state to last, as now exposed Imperial scouts focused a deadly stream of fire upon them, and a pair of shocktroopers ran forward, looking to exploit the gap.

Bullets flew, men fell, and blood stained the ground. There were screams and shouted commands, all lost to the persistent noise. _If we're overrun, we lose;_ Maia remembered the Lieutenant's cold explanation. _Worse, we're probably all dead._ She turned her body and fired as fast as she could at the shocktroopers, hurling bullets in desperate effort.

Running forward in a fighting crouch, their sturdy blast suits protecting them, the shocktroopers did not fall quickly or easily. One, struck through the leg, dropped to one knee and poured a storm of lead from his machine gun, lacing a pair of crouched Gallians and sending one young girl down in a bloody pool on the cobbles before he was overcome. The other kept on charging. Maia saw one of her shots plaster against armor, and the man stumbled, but she had not inflicted a severe wound. In seconds he'd be close enough to lob a grenade into their barricades, and that might finish it all.

The irregulars were saved not by their own valor, but by Imperial numbers and enthusiasm. The tank, firing again, made a bad shot, and the force of the explosion threw the tan-plated shocktrooper to the ground. Maia emptied a full clip of five shots into his head, and he did not get up afterwards.

No second rush followed, but the tank advanced inexorably, and now the counterfire was so fierce every Gallian head hunkered deep behind cover, their accuracy to hit the Imperials reduced to almost nothing.

Turn away, breathe deep, reload, turn back, one blink to grab a target, unload, don't bother really aiming, turn away, and repeat as long as sanity holds out. This maddening process transformed into Maia's entire existence for the shockingly long time, hours it seemed it must have been, though a man with a watch would have said just over a minute, as the Imperial tank moved up, carrying a small sea of troopers in its wake.

In the midst of one of these abortive sequences of violence Maia saw the tank's turret slowly ascend toward the heavens, and then launch a slow-moving glowing projectile toward the truck that remained the principle strong point of the defense.

Mortar!

Maia's mind flashed an image of the Lieutenant coated in blood and shrapnel, only wearing her face, as the shell exploded.

The world went white, chunks of paper raining down like heavy confetti. The Darcsen realized what had happened a moment later, the truck's bed had been filled with paper and then soaked, creating something like a wet sandbag effect. The truck was no longer recognizable as such, but men, battered by shrapnel and deafened but whole, remained behind it.

A familiar stubby cone shape emerged over the edge of the metal ruins, and with a low burst of compressed gas the lance took its first shot at the tank.

The anti-tank weapon hit between the two turrets, scoring a major hole in the armor.

Instantly the fire of the Imperial soldiers shifted toward the lone lancer.

Tank lances took some time to reload, just as tank guns. Sighting down her scope Maia understood the Imperial's strategy, and knew she had to stop it. Something inside her told made it clear death was certain if they didn't take the tank out now.

She rolled right, into the gap previous shells had opened, firing the moment she came up, taking advantage of the single second of clarity.

Two shots clipped a shocktrooper in the head, and he collapsed instantly. Maia didn't stop, but made the move to charge forward, aiming directly for the left edge of the enemy tank's profile. Machine gun fire from the tank screamed in her ears as it passed just over her skull when she slid along the cobbles inside the arc of fire.

Best cover in the world, a tank between you and the enemy, the reasoning part of her mind, practically an observer into actions happening of their own accord, noted. Elbows churned as she crawled forward, pausing to fire at an enemy scout as she did, sending the man ducking down. Tanks are weak in the rear, at the radiator, every soldier knew this, and unconsciously it must have been her intent.

Even as Maia sluggishly advanced toward an open position almost certain to result in her demise, the battle changed again. The lancer fired a second time, slamming the tank along the turret again, only perhaps a meter and a half above her head. _Heartless bastard! _The Darcsen's fury imaged the Lieutenant once again. The imperials redoubled their fire, and the Lancer went down. A third shot seemed impossible.

Yet Maia saw something as she glanced up at the tank. The armor had been bent and stripped by the shell's impact, with the inner spaces of the turret fully exposed through a ragged aperture. Her hands moved of their own accord, acting even as she realized what had to be done. _Pull out the grenade, ignite it, jump upright and stuff it inside, then roll, roll, roll!_

The tank blew apart in a huge inundation of sound and fury.

For a single, infinitesimal moment everything held at a stop.

"Drive them back!" the Lieutenant's voice was raw and shrill, but still had potency. Gallians fired recklessly, and Imperials, bereft of cover, fell or scrambled backward, seeking alleys in which to hide. Staying prone Maia did not bother to shoot, but crept back toward whatever remained of their defensive position. Gradually all the targets disappeared, and there was a space of relative calm. The noise of battle persisted, but it was distant, elsewhere.

"Good work scout," the Lieutenant nodded at her, and then moved on to other concerns.

_Is anyone still alive?_ Maia gasped in horror as she saw what remained of their little squadron. There had been eighteen to begin with, counting the Lieutenant. Now there were ten, and everyone sported at least minor gashes. The scouts had suffered worst, she noticed idly. Aside from the lieutenant and herself, there were only two others. The remaining six men and women were shocktroopers, blessed with something resembling armor. Six scouts, one lancer, and one shocktrooper made up the casualties.

They aren't all dead, Maia could see. She'd some experience with exhaustion and injuries, people collapsed in triathalons after all, at least three of their fallen could be saved by a medic with a ragnite suite, she was sure. "Where's the evac Lieutenant?" she demanded.

"I don't know," the man didn't look at her; he was struggling with a shocktrooper to rearm their lance. "This squad hasn't got a dedicated medic. I've called for aid on the wireless, but there's been no confirmed response."

"Who's in command then?" a shocktrooper asked.

"I'm in command," the Lieutenant snapped, looking indomitable despite his beat-up appearance.

"And who do you report to?" Maia refused to let him off so easy. _Admit its no one, damn it! Admit we've lost; let's get out of here while we still can!_

He didn't have time to answer.

"Sir, they're coming back!" one of the scouts yelped.

The Lieutenant's head snapped around to take one quick look. "Damn," he muttered under his breath. "Too many." Quick he spun about. "You two," he pointed at two of the battered shocktroopers. "Take the wounded and our lance back to the camp at the square. Move!" They managed a slow lurch into motion. "Everyone else, layered withdrawal. You!" Maia was shocked when he pointed directly at her.

"What?" the last time he'd done that there'd been a death threat involved. "I'm not playing rearguard."

"Stuff it," he snapped. "You take him, him, and her," he indicated two shocktroopers and a scout. "Can you measure thirty meters in steps?"

"Yeah," of course she could, she was a trained runner. "What of it?"

"That's the interval," he explained, surprisingly patient. "You go back thirty, and wait until we fall back to you. You hold for thirty seconds, and then fall back past us another thirty. Got it?"

"How long do we keep it up?" she had no way of believing they could pull something so intricate all the way back to the square.

"As long as we can," apparently neither did the Lieutenant. "Go now, they're coming!" He was firing as soon as the order was given.

Later Maia would wonder if she hadn't gone crazy and charged the tank would the Lieutenant have picked her for that duty, and if he had not, how many things would have been different? In the moment there was only survival.

They managed the interval three full cycles before he waved her to break and run, dropping the last grenade on a hydrant to provide an illusion of cover. The slower shocktroopers suffered terribly then. Only one survived to reach the square with them.

It was only in that square, in the chaos of those who tried to escape the Imperial onslaught, Maia learned the Lieutenant's name was Vernon Marten. He gathered survivors from the Regular army, the town watch, and the irregular squads, and led them in a general retreat, commandeering every vehicle available. Four people, three men and a woman, all over seventy, volunteered to stay and fight to the last. Maia could never remember any of their names.

What she did remember was the Lieutenant looking at a time piece the moment they passed the western gate of Redor, bouncing in a flatbed with every twisted cobblestone. "What is it?" she asked from the seat of her bicycle, seeing the scowl on his face.

"In three hours and twenty-nine minutes the Empire conquered Redor completely," it was an utterly deadpan statement, delivered flatly, like a grocer reading off an order for flour. Hearing it, Maia felt the world had changed, and a doom vast and beyond her understanding had descended on more than just her, Gallia, or Darcsens. It overwhelmed her.

As she turned away from the ruins of the embattled town, she caught a glimpse of Marten's eyes. Though weary, they burned with a precise crystal vision. He stared into all-devouring doom and was undaunted.

Technical Notes

Regarding the first reviewers comments that Gallia is intended to be Lithuania, I can only say that for all the supposed commonality between the Europa of Valkyria Chronicles and actual Europe, there are very significant differences. In point of fact, a rough superpositioning of the two maps would probably place Gallia in the North Sea to the immediate west of Denmark. The Empire actually consists of territories corresponding to Germany, Poland, and the various central European countries such as Austria and Hungary. The equivalent of 'Russia' is the very eastern most portion of the map and represents a power that, so far as we know, was not involved in EWII at all.

More generally, it's dangerous to draw strong parallels between EWII and WWII, despite the symbolic aspects the game displays. EWII is a much smaller, shorter conflict and is played out with very different technologies (most obviously the almost complete absence of air power, but also huge differences in tank technology: ie. in 1935 the Germans had just begun producing the Panzer II). The conflict on the Gallian front, specifically, lasts less than a year, presumably from early spring to late fall (one of the Writing on the Wall reports indicates Bruhl is retaken 6 months after is initially fell).

Regarding the second reviewer's comment about Maia's name, yes Darcsens as a culture don't have names. Maia, however, is a professional athlete who has competed beyond Gallia, and therefore has to use a last name for contest (and probably passport) purposes. Therefore she uses the name Serl, representing her birthplace, officially. This is the reality of the modern world, as administrative convention forces cultures to adopt a native convention capable of being processed in international databases.

One of the odd challenges of writing in the Valkyria Chronicles setting is that characters in the game routinely take hits with no loss of functionality, and the critically injured can be healed almost immediately and recalled to the fighting. I had made certain compromises about armor, bullet impacts, and shrapnel to preserve a narrative that does not play out a game mechanic, but still stays true to the spirit of how your troops could move under fire. I hope it works.


	3. Chapter 3

**Gallian Front**

**Outskirts of Vlonen**

**5 Days into the Imperial Invasion**

Night had fallen by the time the ramshackle assemblage of vehicles escaping Redor reached the next significant settlement of Vlonen, ten kilometers down the road to the west. Vernon lethargically gave orders for various refugees to report to local command; he could not find the energy to do more than that as they drove into the town. His mind was elsewhere, struggling to process the rapidly evolving situation.

"Are they going to attack this place tonight?" the Darcsen woman, easily keeping their convoy's pathetic pace on her bicycle, questioned. Vernon had learned her name was Maia, overhearing it from the other surviving scout when he'd had them deploy to the sides of their 'column' during the first part of the retreat.

"Probably not," he shook his head. "The Imperial advance regiments are in a lot better shape than we are, but they have to rest too. They'll probably just move in to range to shell us and keep a minor bombardment up through the night." _Enough to keep us tired, nervous, and unprepared. The attack will come in the morning. _

"You don't seem happy about it," Maia noted.

"This is only the fifth day since they crossed the border," Vernon shook his head, running the sums. "On the second day they took Ghirlandio and broke the regiments there; eleven kilometers the next day, then fifteen yesterday, and eighteen today, by the road markers. Forty-four kilometers all told."

"That's fast I'm guessing, but so what?" she wasn't a soldier by training, and certainly not an officer, she didn't understand.

"By the road maps it's approximately two hundred and fifty kilometers from Ghirlandio to Fouzen. Only two hundred as the crow flies, and depending on how close they follow the roads in Naggair the Imps could probably make two-twenty-five. If their advance maintains the current pace of fifteen kilometers a day, they could reach Fouzen in twelve days."

"There's no way that will happen though," Maia shook her head. "I mean, at some point the Gallian army will give a major battle, won't they? That'll surely slow things down."

"We can hope, I suppose," he did not share the Darcsen's convictions, though he recognized she had not expected Gallia to win such a battle. _But our commanders would not launch an attack they did not believe they could win, certainly not nobles like Damon._ The Lieutenant was not privy to all of the Principality's deployments, but his previous duty advising town watches had provided a good idea of where major force concentrations were located. _If the Imperials keep up this pace, it may be impossible for any sufficient force to be assembled to challenge them and Fouzen could simply be lost. That is what we have to stop. _"We can also keep on fighting."

She shot him a look filled with sudden, brutal anger. "Keep fighting? Are you insane? Twelve men and women died in your 'squad' today," she laced the word with sarcasm. "We had to abandon the wounded to the Empire, and not one of us was a soldier. For what? To delay the Imperial advance a few minutes? What did we buy, one minute for each life? Is that really worth it to you, enough to shoot me if I disobey?"

There was passion behind the words she flung in his face, and Vernon could not completely discount them. _She isn't a soldier, none of them were, and come tomorrow there will be many more who are not soldiers who I will have to demand fight and die._ Silently he reconsidered. _No, they are soldiers, trained or not, we are all soldiers now. The Empire has made it so; everyone will have to come to understand that._ He formulated his answer slowly and carefully, letting Maia stare and fume for long, slow seconds. "What happens on this front, especially right here, right now, before the trees fade in the openness of Naggiar, will determine if and when the north of Gallia is lost. That in turn will determine how the fight for the center and Randgriz is fought. If we fail to stand strong now, to give our army a chance, Gallia will be destroyed without ever having truly fought."

"And to save Gallia you'd throw away as many lives, as many unwilling lives like mine, as it takes, wouldn't you?" she positively hissed.

Vernon was struck dumb. He simply had no response, he did not think that way, could not think that way. It wasn't an officer's thinking. _If you think how much is enough, you'll never win. The Imperial commander, whoever it is, surely wasn't thinking that at Ghirlandaio._ He knew Maia wouldn't accept those words. He didn't himself, not really. There was something more to it, something far deeper, but he couldn't' articulate it, couldn't make this Darcsen woman to whom Gallia was nothing more than lines on maps and symbols on stationery, understand. "Yes," he said quietly at last and added nothing more.

She said nothing, only turned away with murder written on her face.

_I suppose I shouldn't expect to understand a Darcsen,_ Vernon considered. _And certainly not a woman. _

A small group of overworked MPs processed the refugees and military personnel flowing into Vlonen. After answering a battery of questions Vernon was sent to a mess tent and then to a commissary to replenish his personal gear. It was there, gathering new rifle clips, when he received a summons to meet with the ranking Gallian officer in the town.

"Sir!" Vernon saluted promptly when ushered in to meet with one Captain Maxwell Yolan, a bearded, mustachioed man of at least forty with a thickening middle. He was seated behind what was surely the desk of the school principal for Vlonen, having commandeered the school as his headquarters, a fairly typical practice. He was glancing at reports when the Lieutenant was brought inside.

"Ah, Lieutenant Marten, was it?" Captain Yolan did not look directly at him. "Of the 4th Regiment, 2nd Engineering Division I believe? Assigned to the Office of Training and Standards?"

"Yes sir, that was my posting," he couldn't muster much enthusiasm for the response. Major Ketfield had pulled him into the shattered 1st Armored, General Damon's ravaged command, within hours of the fall of Ghirlandaio, along with the entirety of the Betham Town Watch, his last official assignment.

"And since the loss of Ghirlandaio," the man said the phrase as if it properly belonged to some kind of fantasy. Vernon wished he knew as well. Men in the 1st Armored had whispered something about a giant mobile gun that shattered the walls, but no one had any details. All that was known was the loss of the fortress so rapidly had crippled Gallian defensive planning in the north. "You've participated in the defense of five towns east of this position."

"Yes sir," Vernon winced to recall five hideously brutal defeats. He'd done his best, and he thought everyone else had too, but whatever they were doing, it wasn't working.

"Am I correct in assuming you intend to participate in a sixth effort tomorrow morning?" The Lieutenant thought there was something odd in the Captain's tone.

"Yes sir."

"Your dedication does you credit, soldier," Yolan marked another page in his paperwork. "Tell me, what do you think it will take to halt the enemy advance?"

"Me sir?" Vernon questioned, not believing the Captain could possibly be asking a very junior lieutenant for advice.

"Yes you," his superior replied irritably. "You have a great deal of experience with this enemy so far, so I was hoping you might have some worthwhile insights."

"I see sir," Vernon thought about it for a moment, wondering what he could say this man would believe and whether he truly did understand anything about the Imperial force. "The enemy's principle advantage is in mobile armor. Their formations have a far greater proportion of tanks and lancers than ours, and their armor-to-infantry coordination is probably superior. That's what must be stopped, or they will continue to penetrate our defensive lines."

"And how would you stop these coordinated armored formations?" the Captain prodded.

"To win, we need to widen the front, if they continue to break our lines, the Imperials can present a mobile battlefield with short-ranged encounters, which favor their numbers and their heavier, less-accurate weaponry," Vernon had seen that already. _We can beat them when we keep them at arm's length, but in a fist fight, we lose._ "If we could force the Imperial columns to disperse their advance along a wide defensive line I believe we could hold them back despite their numbers."

"An astute analysis," Yolan finally raised his head to look at the Lieutenant. Vernon altered his initial assessment of the man, he did not have a strong bearing or much of a military presence, but he had a sharp, narrow gaze, and projected awareness. "There is one key problem, however."

"And that is sir?" Vernon felt his heart sink. _Was the Gallian army truly in a hopeless situation?_ He would fight on regardless, he vowed, but it would be better to have a real chance.

"The numerical disparity in this region," the Captain explained with a slow shake of the head. "The Citadel at Ghirlandaio was designed to hold the northernmost portion of Gallia against invasion. The vast majority of our troops were posted to the south, and there is now a second Imperial column between this front and any concentration of reinforcements."

_So the war turns on the rapid fall of a single fortress, one accomplished before any but a few in Gallia had fired even a shot._ It was a nauseating feeling of helplessness to recognize such a thing. "Do you intend to retreat then, sir?" Vernon asked, wondering what the options might be now, realistically. _Could they give ground here and attain some kind of advantage elsewhere?_

"No, we cannot retreat," Yolan scowled. "Naggiar is behind us, nothing but wide plains between this point and Fouzen. There is no way to establish any kind of front on the plains; it's too open. The Imperials will simply plow through any defense. You are correct Lieutenant, in that their armored formations must be stopped. I accept they cannot be halted permanently," the Gallian's face was murderous in its wrath. "But with the forces assembled here I intend to do so at least temporarily. There are many units deployed along the northern coast, those must be brought down to the fighting. Above all, we must delay this northern column as long as possible, so forces to the south can defeat the one below us."

"But if we lack the troops to defend…" Vernon wondered where this was going.

"We will attack," Yolan decreed with finality. "I have two regiments worth of the Regulars with me," he explained. "My own 11th and portions of the 12th, 9th, and 8th regiments equal in strength. Tomorrow, just before dawn, I intend to launch a counterattack against the enemy lines."

_A bold move, very bold, by Gallia let it work!_ Vernon thought silently, even as he did not believe it would. _They will be swallowed up, whatever damage they do; the Imperial force is too massive._ Nevertheless, he determined to support the effort with everything he could. "Do you have an assignment for me in this attack sir?" he requested.

"Not precisely, but I do have assignment for you," the Captain's look was deeply piercing, and devoid of warmth. "I have everything I need for my attack in the morning, but I do have a task for you. Lieutenant Marten, I am placing you in charge of the defense of Vlonen."

"Sir?" Vernon was taken aback, unable to reply fully.

"Even if our counterattack succeeds, and especially if it does not, the Imperials will attack the town," Yolan noted almost casually. "The town watch is in position of course, but there are now a large number of scattered survivor groups and volunteers that could be mustered into a force. You represent one of the only officers among them, in spite of your relative inexperience, and I believe you truly understand our circumstances. So, gather up these forces and deploy them to defend this town. That was not a request."

"Of course sir," there was nothing else to say when given an order. Vernon felt woefully inadequate to the task; there were surely at least half a regiment's worth of forces available, if a little light on materiel. _Materiel, right, think practical._ "What resources would I have available sir? I will need uniforms, lances, grenades, and, though I understand you perforce should mobilize all available armor for your attack, at least one tank for command purposes would be invaluable."

"Take this to the regimental quartermaster," Yolan handed over a small slip of paper. "That is your authorization. I will see you get what you need from our reserves, I doubt we will be needing them much after tomorrow," a shadow descended over the Captain's face. "I cannot say if there will be a tank available, unfortunately. I will absolutely require every last one of mine, but perhaps the Valkyria have a surprise or two in store."

"Perhaps sir," Vernon wasn't inclined to call upon beings of ancient myth for assistance. He could only hope and try to find something through ingenuity. "When is the attack to go forward sir?"

"0515 tomorrow."

"Then with your leave sir, I will get to planning, I would hope to get a few hours of sleep tonight." Vernon saluted, and when the Captain returned it, turned and marched out. He felt a crushing pressure spreading over him. _I must try to save this town if the Captain fails, as he is most likely to._ The Lieutenant wanted to be optimistic, he truly did, he wanted to see a triumph in the morning, but it was hard to see. This move was a great risk, and even success would bring only modest rewards at best. Quietly though he had to give the Captain credit for making the move. Two regiments could not stop the Imperial advance for long alone, attacking was the only real chance. _Would I have chosen that plan, were I in command?_ He didn't know.

It was dark now, with the sky filled with tattered clouds, but the town of Vlonen was not dark. Ragnite lamps burned everywhere as the Gallian forces struggled to gather themselves for battle. After a few quick questions to a momentarily idle MP, Vernon determined where most of the survivors from the various ragtag defensive squads had been placed, a particular park on the west edge of town.

Ignoring his own exhaustion as he walked through the town, the Lieutenant made plans. He needed to get a count first, that was step one. Step two would be to separate out them into something like manageable squads and appoint leadership. Step three, get to the quartermaster and find equipment. Step four; liaise with the town watch to determine needs. Step five, set up deployments and a retreat plan for tomorrow. Step six…he stopped. _I'll worry about step six if I'm still awake at that point_.

The Westside Park was filled with people. They were a sorry sight mostly, and few were even awake at this point, having chosen, wisely enough in the Lieutenant's estimation, to collapse as soon as possible after being given a meal. Unfortunately this meant he needed to wake them up again. No doubt it would prove to be an unpleasant process. Thankfully, this was one of purposes for which MPs had been invented.

"Rise and report! Stand to! Repeat, stand to!" at Vernon's orders one of the MPs started marching through the park with a megaphone, while the other two of the trio who had been watching over things got the troops, watchmen, and volunteers into a rough semi-circle so they could be heard. There were many nasty looks on tired faces, but Vernon faced them without being intimidated. He scanned the group for those he recognized but found only a very few. Maia, that angry Darcsen athlete, stood at the far edge, in a small group of other Darcsens, isolated from the rest as usual.

"Everyone!" Vernon called when they had all gathered and achieved something resembling silence. "This group will be called to assist in defending Vlonen during operations commencing tomorrow morning." He had no intention of revealing when the attack was planned; it would be all too easy for the Empire to plant a mole in a group of this kind, better to simply withhold information for now. "Per Captain Yolan's orders I have been given command of this group. My name is Lieutenant Marten, and I expect all of you to be ready to fight for Gallia in her hour of need." The formalities observed, Vernon got to work. "You will be organized into…' he made a quick estimation of the total number. About one-hundred and twenty all-told, over half a regiment indeed. "Six squads. To that end everyone must fall out by specialty. Scouts!" he pointed to one location. "Shocktroopers! Anyone with Lancer training or experience!" They would need ever man or woman able to wield a lance, he wasn't about to be picky. "Engineers! Snipers! And Tank Crew!"

The result was not what he had hoped, but about what he expected. _Damn, I really need more lancers._ Concentrated anti-tank fire was essential to mounting a coherent defense, especially since they lacked towed guns. Only four men claimed to be tank crew, and since Vernon would only need one for a driver, the others would be pressed into service as scouts. "Those with prior military experience raise your hands!" he next ordered. The result was a tepid signaling from a mixed group of middle-aged men and women, EWI veterans signaling their service. _Not what I want, but I need squad leaders of some kind._ "Anyone who held Sergeant's rank or higher step forward." This netted four, three men and a woman. The Lieutenant gave each one a quick once over, and then, satisfied he was not likely to better, assigned them each command of squads one through four. _I'll command the 5__th__ Squad myself, there's no reason to pretend I'll be able to properly coordinate this force as a Captain would._ That left only the final squad. "Anyone who held the rank of Corporal step forward."

Several responded to this call, for there had been a great many corporals in the old war, but one of the tank crewers, a man surely into his fifties, claimed the rank. Vernon approached the man. "Your service?"

"Tank Commander in the 8th Guards Regiment during EWI," the man responded without much enthusiasm. "Hoped to never have to do this again."

"War rarely conforms to men's wishes," Vernon had no time for sympathy. "You have the 6th Squad." He gathered the commanders together, and one other. "Maia Serl, report!"

Scowling, the Darcsen sulked over to the five veterans, by far the youngest in the group. "What is it you want?" she hissed. Whether she was offended at military attention, at the looks given her by non-Darcsens, or simply wished she was sleeping Vernon did not know, or particularly care. He knew her and that was sufficient.

"You're promoted to Corporal," he told her. "You'll stand in for me to organize the 5th Squad while I visit the Quartermaster. You must each gather a squad together. One sniper, two engineers, five lancers, six shocktroopers, and six scouts. We won't have enough lancers and engineers to fully meet that quota, so fill up any deficiencies with scouts. When I get back we'll meet again to distribute gear. Understood?"

"Yes sir," they answered, though Maia merely nodded, ignoring military procedure. He noted it, but there was no time to be irritated.

The group of engineers included ten people, a widely variable group indeed of age and appearance, but Vernon saw one wore a much battered Gallian Regulars uniform, the only professional in the group. "You there, come here," he motioned to the engineer.

He was young man, surely not more than eighteen, with a ruffled mop of brown hair on a pinched, almost mousy face. His eyes were bloodshot from lack of sleep, and haunted by the horrors of warfare, but his bearing remained steady, if a bit slumped with exhaustion. "What was your unit soldier?" Vernon asked him.

"2nd Battery Field Artillery, of the 1st Armored sir!" he managed a fairly proper salute.

_A boy from Ghirlandaio, amazing_, Vernon was surprised. The 1st Armored had taken a hideous beating in that astonishing loss, and many of its troops had never come out of the doomed fortress. Of those that had, Damon had withdrawn the survivors rapidly. This youth has surely been separated from his unit for days. The 1st Armored was a glory-seeking unit, fast track to promotion. Half of them were noble fops toadying to Damon; the other half had real talent. Vernon's eye surveyed the boy with a tight, scrapping assessment, trying to burn through to his core. _He still carries his rifle with some pride, he didn't shed his uniform, and,_ the Lieutenant noted this with unexpected realization, _he's not shooting disdain-filled glares at Maia. So, I think he's the later group. You'd better be boy._ "And your name Private?

"John sir, John Standeth," it was not the name of any noteworthy noble family, and the boy did not sound as if he expected to be recognized.

"How'd you end up here?" Vernon queried, seeking an answer to that small puzzle.

"My squad got separated from the rest of the regiment at Ghirlandaio," John explained hesitantly. "We had to retreat to the north. We met up with the Sixth Light Infantry there, but the Imperials overran us at Karberry, and I've been traveling for two days to get here, I don't know what happened to anyone from my unit sir."

"Something we share then," he offered what little sympathy he possessed. "But I have orders for you. Get a map of the town from the MPs, and draft a set of defensive points for use by our squads on the eastern side. Once I return from the Quartermaster we will put together a work detail to construct them. Simple plans only, we must be able to be in position by 0500 tomorrow morning."

"Sir I'm not qualified to…" John tried to protest.

"Look around you solider," Vernon mercilessly cut him off. "Do you see anyone more qualified? You're a trained engineer of the Gallian army. The rest are confused survivors, old veterans, and straggling volunteers. You will do this. Failure is not to be considered. Am I clear?"

"Yes sir, very clear, I'll get right on it!" he practically scurried off.

_I hope I've made the right choice_; the Lieutenant had a cold feeling in his stomach as he watched the engineer's shaking backpack. Lives would be saved or lost depending on that boy's decisions. He'd have rather done it himself. _I'm an engineer too, I was trained for this sort of thing, but there's no choice now, I have to handle other responsibilities._ Defensive positions wouldn't mean much if they had no guns, after all. It was time to go and see the quartermaster, only there was one last thing to be done first.

Three tank crewers remained, and Vernon was determined to choose the best of them as his driver. One man wore the uniform of a regular, but would not meet his eyes as he passed a deliberate gaze over the trio. The second was an older man, balding, and the Lieutenant guessed he was a veteran who was used to the older tanks, not a proper choice for driving any newer models. The last was a young woman, probably even younger than John the engineer, and she wore the uniform of the Gallian militia.

_A pretty girl,_ Vernon couldn't help but notice. The militia uniform was far more flattering to women than the one worn by the regulars. She was small of frame, typical of tank drivers, with a demure posture and an inherent country-flavored grace about her, very Gallian. She possessed a heart-shaped face offset by a long wave of blond hair almost to the waist, bound in a tight ponytail. "Your unit?" he demanded, pushing distractions away forcibly. He did not trust the militia uniform; the quality of those forces was dangerously random.

She managed a reasonable facsimile of a salute. "Squad 3 of the 12th Regiment sir!"

"And your duties?"

"Tank driver sir!" her voice was crisp, clean, and airy.

"You've no tank with you, how did you survive?" It was perhaps a cruel query, but Vernon knew the destruction of a tank almost universally claimed the lives of those inside.

"We took a lance to the treads in Hedmer, north of here, and couldn't move," her voice dropped, sad memories crossing over her face, bathing it in shadow. "The Imperials were overtaking us, so the commander ordered us out and to light off the ammunition to destroy her. We did, but he took a sniper shot leaving the cupola. I've lost my unit ever since."

"Don't worry about your unit," he responded immediately. Dwelling on the past would not benefit any of them now, not if they intended to survive. "You're my tank driver now. Come with me to the quartermaster's."

"Yes sir!"

"Everyone else, get to work!" Vernon bellowed as he turned and left. As always, there wasn't enough time. _Well then,_ he thought, _I'll have to find a way to make some._

Lost in his thoughts and walking at speed, Vernon barely realized the young tank driver had asked him a question.

"What was that?" he muttered in embarrassment. "I'm afraid I didn't catch it."

"I was just wondering if we'll really get a tank sir?" the blond girl, and Vernon had to consider her a girl, for she might well be ten years his junior for all her allure, wondered. "I thought the Regulars needed every one."

"We shall have to see," he admitted, though he hated it. _I need a tank! I cannot lead screaming into a wireless on foot!_ "I intend to press hard for everything I can get from the quartermaster. There is no point in not using material now, the Imperials will surely drive us back, and then we'll simply have to destroy it."

She nodded, understanding his point, and Vernon began to consider this one might be a capable soldier. "What is your name?" he asked, realizing he had not requested it previously.

"Yvonne Kellens sir," the militia member told him, a surprisingly exotic name for someone with such typically Gallian looks.

The Lieutenant filed the name in his mind, and then brought all his concentration back on the battle that was sure to come with the quartermaster.

Ultimately it was a battle he won easily, thanks to Captain Yolan. There had been very strict instructions sent that no surplus was to be maintained and all reserves to be mobilized. Rifles, grenades, and lances were all available if more than sufficient numbers. There was even a fair amount of uniforms, blast suits, and field kits for the various troops, something of great use in the retreat Vernon was almost certain to be leading if he lived to seen noon tomorrow.

Heavy equipment, however, failed him. Yolan had taken every towed gun and filed piece available. Vlonen would be defended by unsupported infantry alone. The Lieutenant did not begrudge the Captain this choice, the counterattack would need every resource to have any chance of success, but he felt like he was fighting without an arm with any support.

The premonition of helplessness was abetted slightly when Yvonne managed to find them a tank.

_She got so excited over this?_ That was the first thought to flow through Vernon's mind when he saw the tank, buried among a group of transport vehicles warehoused by the Regular's in Vlonen's small depot. The blond militiawoman had been positively bubbly with excitement. The Lieutenant did not share the sentiment.

_An Imperial Light Tank_, he analyzed, looking at it. _It's not a modern one though, and it's a very old model, probably one of the design testers Gallia bought a decade ago._ The Principality had purchased sample tanks from both the Empire and the Federation, ostensibly for comparison, before deciding on modifying Federation designs for political reasons. _No mortar turret and the gun is a smaller bore than is now standard by a few millimeters. The armor is actually heavier, but there's corresponding price in mobility._ Worse, Vernon knew the smaller gun meant non-standard ammunition. The tank would be able to fire only such rounds as remained in its magazine. Considering that its front had been fitted with a snowplow and the rear with a large winch, he was amazed there was any ammunition at all. Yvonne, however, found a single crate with one dozen shells.

"Test them each individually, and replace the charges as needed," he ordered her. "If you can't get any shells to work so be it, how many shots we have are irrelevant if we blow ourselves up."

"It'll function sir," Yvonne assured him. "They were using this machine for snow removal as recently as last winter."

"Double-check everything just in case, combat duty is very different than plowing streets," Vernon noted cynically, even as he was grateful to have any tank at all. It was probably of little more use than an armored care, but even that was significant. "And make certain of the wireless, that's probably the most important piece of all."

"Will do sir!" she was already into it, apparently taking solace in having a constructive task to apply energy toward, instead of wallowing in grief.

The Lieutenant left the young soldier to her labors. He had much to do yet organizing the defense and it had to be done soon if he hoped to get any sleep at all.

_Come morning, I wont be getting any rest for a long time_, his intuition and experience assured him.

Technical Notes

This chapter contains a great deal of setup material, for which I hope I may be forgiven. It is largely put in for everything that comes after (actually, the game was organized the same way, a brief introduction sequence at Bruhl, and then a large quantity of setup before the first Squad 7 engagement at Vasel). I have made a number of assumptions regarding the structure of Gallia's Army here, which we actually have relatively limited knowledge of from the game.

First there's the question of ranks. Squads are commanded by Lieutenants and Regiments by Captains, but above that it becomes very unclear. In the game Captain Varrot is seen regularly speaking directly to General Damon, who apparently commanded a much, much larger force. So either the Gallian Army had a relatively soft high command structure or Varrot had greater responsibilities than just her one regiment of militia (possibly due to seniority over other captains). It's not clear, but I feel comfortable allowing Yolan to command a force and deployment considerably greater than one regiment in this emergency situation.

Second there's a question of units. A Gallian Squad apparently consists of twenty infantry and either two or four tank crew based on the personnel in your active roster in the game (including an extra spot for Zaka's unseen tank driver). I'm leaving medics outside the squad structure and associating them, along with MPs, artillery operators, and othernon-combatant specialties, with the regiment structure. A Regiment probably has a standard fighting strength of ten squads, based on Varrot never referring to a Squad number above ten, and in the scene at Naggiar when the Imperials refer to 'two regiments strength' less than a dozen tanks are shown (with presumably some number behind the hill). If each squad has one to two tanks, that would make a regiment about 200 fighting men, with 10-20 tanks of various types. Imperial regiments would probably be similar in size, but with a larger number of tanks.

Third there's a question of squadron makeup. In the game you can keep pretty much any combination you want and the game's mission make-up allows you to completely ignore snipers and mostly ignore engineers (only really necessary for the few missions where there are anti-tank mines in a path your tank _must_ cross). Officially Squad 7's breakdown (based on the poster shot of the entire squad, which showed 13 characters, creating a squad of 16 infantry) was: 5 scouts, 5 shocktroopers, 4 lancers, 1 engineer, and 1 sniper. Something resembling this ratio is likely throughout the Gallian army. I have chosen to further reduce the presence of specialty units, particularly lancers, for Vernon's irregular force, given the nature of the people he's working with.

A note about tank origins: In the opening video sequence a group of Imperial Lancers destroy a tank very similar to Gallian designs while Irene refers to them attacking the Federation. Therefore I assume the standard Gallian tanks are based off Federation designs (as it is unlikely for such a small nation to design armored vehicles from the ground up, and the failed Edelweiss project likely consumed much of their tank design R&D).


End file.
